Hello My Name Was

I found it at the bottom of the bag—

the one I hadn't touched since the job.

Lanyard knotted twice, the badge face-down,

the plastic sleeve clouded, the clip a broken knob.

I turned the badge over. My name.

The title I had when I went to these things,

when I flew to cities and wore the lanyard

and collected the particular feelings

of being legible at a distance—

someone reading what I was across a room.

The title in a font built for that.

I'm packing the same bag now. I'm leaving soon

for a different kind of work.

I set the lanyard on the table.

I didn't throw it out.

I'll leave it there as long as I'm able

to keep not deciding.

The badge face-down again. The clip still cracked.

The bag by the door for the morning.

The title on the badge. The old job. The fact.